


The More Is My Unrest

by Hecate_Hexx



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Captivity, Complete, Dark, Dragon Age: Origins Quest - Broken Circle, F/M, Jealousy, Kinloch Hold (Dragon Age), Longing, Mage-Templar Dynamics (Dragon Age), Mages (Dragon Age), Masturbation, Requited Unrequited Love, Romeo and Juliet References, Secret Crush, Templars (Dragon Age), Voyeurism, trigger warning: noncon, trigger warning: sexual assault, trigger warning: suicidal thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-09
Updated: 2020-09-09
Packaged: 2021-03-06 21:21:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,837
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26375656
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hecate_Hexx/pseuds/Hecate_Hexx
Summary: "Don't touch me! Stay away! Sifting through my thoughts... tempting me with the one thing I always wanted but could never have... using my shame against me... my ill advised infatuation with her... a mage, of all things!" During the Broken Circle, Cullen is tormented with remembrances of unrequited love by a Desire Demon wearing the face of his greatest and most secret weakness, Solona Amell.
Relationships: Amell & Cullen Rutherford, Amell/Cullen Rutherford, Cullen Rutherford & Female Warden, Cullen Rutherford/Circle Mage(s), Cullen Rutherford/Female Warden, Cullen Rutherford/Mage(s), Cullen Rutherford/Warden, Desire Demon(s) & Cullen Rutherford, Female Amell & Cullen Rutherford, Female Amell/Cullen Rutherford
Comments: 2
Kudos: 13





	The More Is My Unrest

His friends had been three days dying.

Sometimes Cullen thought he was dead, too.

Trapped in a cage of light by the stairs that lead to the Harrowing Chamber, he had watched his brothers fight one by one, then fall one by one. On the first day he had stood beside them, trembling but determined to salvage what wreckage of the Circle remained. How strong that flame of justice had burned within him; how noble and true, in that first flush of battle.

That flame was now a wet smear of soot.

His fellow Templars’ faces had sought his out in their final moments, broken and agonised and pleading. Some had been stoic, lips pressed so hard they quaked, cries subdued and stifled. Many more had offered up everything they were; begged for their Commander and their Maker and their mothers, in that order, before the end. Cullen had watched them all. He had had no choice.

Until it was his turn.

He did not know for what purpose the demon kept him shackled in Uldred’s incorporeal prison when so many of his peers had been discarded like human refuse. There seemed little to be gained. He knew nothing of the Knight-Commander’s strategy or the First Enchanter’s intentions. He had not even been questioned. Simply restrained, and made to watch. Like a puppet; like a toy.

The being – this demon which had tormented his friends and brothers – had been a figure of shadow and flame as it had eviscerated his fellows. He could not glean any sort of logical shape, whether it be human or beast, from those nightmarish encounters. Yet now, as he felt it stalk towards him, its attention fully on him at last, a silhouette began to take shape. One which curved softly in a disturbing echo of the statues of Andraste he had prayed to for so many years. One whose face flushed with delicate colour into a form so familiar, yet so wrong, so _very very wrong._

The demon cocked Solona’s head, her heart-shaped face surveying him as silky waves of alabaster hair fell about her shoulders like luminescent water. “You are strong, to last until the very end.”

Some bravado yet remained, though his stutter betrayed him. “Y-you will f-find me harder to break that you would w-wish.”

The demon tipped Solona’s head back, its eyes rolling in distain. It couldn’t get her eyes right, he noted with savage defiance. They remained dark, hellish, with a pinpoint of poison yellow. Not even the deepest denizens of the Fade could hope to replicate the clean blue starlight of Solona’s real eyes; the mountain-lake cobalt, the deep-sea lapis of his true memory. That, at least, he could rely on.

A horrendous wail echoed from the Harrowing Chamber behind him; the sound of soul in utter agony; utter terror. The demon shuddered in pleasure, a hand creeping up Solona’s bodice.

“There are such riches within you,” it whispered, swaying towards Cullen on Solona’s long legs, its gaze holding him with reptilian focus. “ _Cullen_ , sweet _Cullen._ Such longing; such desire. Wouldn’t it be a relief to accept what I offer?”

“You have n-nothing I w-want.”

“Oh, but I do.” The demon curled Solona’s lips, leering over him with obscene excitement. “You are right at the surface, Cullen. Your thoughts, your memories. I see them shining like diamonds. So vivid. So much longing. So much _love._ Is it not fair, only fair, to let me share those sweet recollections?”

He snarled. “I w-will give you n-nothing.”

A blow smote his mind, so dark and claustrophobic that it made him stagger to his knees. His limbs, leaden, would not respond to his screamed commands. Shadow clouded his vision, sickening and grasping. Reaching in, deeper and deeper, rifling profanely through his thoughts and memories. Dragging images and remembrances to light; hurtling him far into the reaches of his own mind.

_“You will give me all.”_

Cullen collapsed to the gore-splattered stones of the Harrowing antechamber, insensible to the world around him as shadows of the past flooded his unseeing eyes.

*

_The Training Grounds_

Cullen winced as he unbuckled his cuirass. He’d expected the master-at-arms to be hard on him – all acolytes spent their first few months of training battered and bruised – and as a recruit of barely seventeen, he had been well-prepared to be the punching bag of the barracks. But a sloppily-parried blow from his sparring partner had driven his chainmail up under the skin of his ribs, calling an immediate halt to the bout and necessitating the glowering Ser Kinnon to send for a healer.

Removing doublet and mail was a trial all by itself. The rings themselves had dislodged, but there was a mess of bloodied cloth sticking to the wound which made his head spin when he pulled at it. Cullen fell against the wall beside the pallet, a light sheen of sweat coating his skin. _Just sit still and wait for the healer, you oaf,_ he chastised himself weakly.

As if his thoughts were made manifest, a soft knock sounded at the door, followed by an even softer voice. “Acolyte Cullen? The First Enchanter sent me to heal you.”

A girl. Cullen felt his cheeks heat before the door had even opened. He always made an idiot of himself around girls; why couldn’t they have sent some grandfatherly enchanter? He tried to compose himself. “C-come in.”

The door opened.

For one moment, Cullen thought the blow had been to his head instead. Daylight shone like a halo around the slim figure that stood at the open door, silhouetting her in silver. As the vision moved into the room, the halo remained – her hair was pale moonlight, falling in soft waves around the prettiest face and bluest eyes he had ever seen.

“You must be Acolyte Cullen. I’m Solona,” said the vision in a soft self-conscious voice. Her hands were clasped together, fingers fidgeting nervously. “Where are you hurt?”

Cullen couldn’t speak. He was pretty sure his mouth was hanging open.

The girl caught sight of the wound. Her azure eyes widened. “Maker’s breath! How on earth did this happen?” Suddenly businesslike in the face of real work to be done, she crossed the room and sat next to him on the pallet. Cullen’s heart went into overdrive. She extended a hand towards his side, looking up hesitantly. “…May I?”

Not trusting himself to speak, Cullen simply nodded. As her fingers skirted gently over his skin, he felt each touch like a spark of lightning.

“I’ll need to clean it before I can cast anything,” the girl – Solona – continued in that shy voice. “Do you have water in here?”

Wordlessly, he gestured to the jug and bowl on the washstand. Solona stood to retrieve it, the sudden movement sending her scent flurrying around him – it made him think of the garden at home, jasmine and gardenias blooming in the night. He felt dizzy, the room blurring, lights beginning to pop in his field of vision.

There was a sound of alarm and Cullen felt soft arms around him, leaning him back against the cushions on the pallet. “Cullen? Are you alright? Can you see me?”

His vision cleared. Solona’s face was inches away, full of concern. Her eyes were all he could look at. “Can you see me?” she repeated.

“Y-yes,” Cullen finally managed. “I s-see you.”

She drew back, her cheeks tinged with faint rose. Wetting a cloth in the washbowl, she slowly began to dab at the wound. Cullen winced, the sharp sting bringing some clarity back to his mind.

“So how did this happen?” Solona was focused on the wound, her eyes shaded by her lashes. It was easier to answer when she wasn’t looking at him.

“Just a b-bad spar. D-Derrien got p-past my parry and it hit at the w-wrong angle.”

She huffed, a welcomingly normal reaction. “Derrien? Say no more. Whenever we’re sent to heal an acolyte, it’s always Derrien’s bad form. Doesn’t he know there’s no place for brute force in single blade sparring? It’s supposed to teach technique, not satisfy egos.”

Cullen was so surprised he forgot to be nervous. “You know sparring?”

Solona pried a small amount of cloth away from the wound, causing him a sharp intake of breath. “Sorry,” she said contritely. “And yes, a little. My family had a master-at-arms; he made sure we all knew the basics.” She looked wistful. “I miss the yard.”

Cullen didn’t know where he got the courage. “Maybe you could ask Ser Kinnon to join to acolytes’ training.”

“Maybe I will!” she smiled, meeting his eyes. Cullen’s heartbeat spiked again. Solona cleared her throat, the pink tinge returning to her cheeks as she bent back over the wound. “Although I doubt that would be allowed. It doesn’t seem like a fair fight. A sixteen year old mage against trained acolytes?” She looked up furtively, the corner of her mouth curling. “It would be pretty embarrassing when I won.”

Cullen choked out a laugh before he could help it. Pain lanced down his side. “Ow,” he groaned. “Can you warn me next time you’re going to make a joke?”

“Who says it was a joke?” she said innocently, wringing out the cloth. “Alright, I think I can start the spell now. Are you ready?”

“Y-yes,” he replied, suddenly feeling nervous again. He hadn’t stuttered at all during their talk of sparring, he realised. She must have distracted him on purpose. Gratitude bloomed within him.

But Solona looked nervous now, too. “I’ll be as gentle as I can. Hold still.”

She closed her eyes, gently extending her hands to the wound. Pale golden light began to coalesce, spilling out of her cupped palms and filling the room with a soft glow. Cullen’s skin tingled all over, the way it did when he went from the hot spring to the cold plunge in the bathhouse. He felt, rather than saw, a quick flash of images – a walled garden fragrant in the sunshine, a solemn boy bending a bow, a young girl giggling as she ran through a market, the crash and salt spray of the sea – memories that were not his own. Content, peaceful, beautiful memories.

Solona’s face glowed softly, her hair turning from silver to spun gold in the reflected light. When she raised her sapphire eyes to his and the pain of his wound diminished, he thought for one senseless moment that Andraste herself had come before him.

The glow faded, leaving them in gentle daylight. Cullen realised he’d covered her hands with his own. He should move them, he knew… but he couldn’t seem to find the will.

Solona made the minutest movement in her fingers, breaking both the real and imagined spell. Cullen tore his eyes from hers to look at his side. The skin was smooth and clean, no trace of the wound remaining. He looked at Solona with unguarded wonder. She shuffled back self-consciously and stood away from the pallet, her hands returning to their nervous clasp.

“Is… everything to your satisfaction?”

He could barely find the words to reply. “Y-yes. Th-th-thank you.”

She smiled, and it was like the sun coming out from behind a cloud. “If you want me to teach Derrien how sparring should be done, just tell Ser Kinnon to send for me.”

As she stood in the doorway, the light that haloed her was blinding and dazzling… and beating gently, he could have sworn, alongside the pulse of his heart.

Until…

The light died, as if something deep and vital within him had been grasped and twisted. A sudden strange presence; an unwelcome intruder in this treasured memory. Solona’s face fell into shadow, blotted out by a creeping darkness that had no place in the familiar peace of his recollection.

“A sweet beginning,” said Solona’s mouth in a voice that was not hers, cleaving through his true memory with claws of jagged glass, hooking in and taking control. Changing, altering his remembrances. As she stood silhouetted in the doorway, Solona’s Circle robes shrank, becoming scant, indecent. He looked for the clear blue eyes of his true remembrance, and saw something dark and entirely different.

“How I shall enjoy our acquaintance,” the demon thrummed.

Cullen blacked out.

*

He came to on cold stone, distant begging and crying filling his ears, smoke and the copper tang of blood filling his nose.

“So much… there is so much here. Love; need; shame; envy; regret; longing… You are a treasure trove, little one.”

Cullen raised his eyes to Solona’s face. So tender, and so beautiful. She had always been beautiful.

“You’re not her,” he said, his voice breaking.

“Does it matter?”

“Yes,” he spat.

The demon smiled as the Fade coalesced around them once more. “It soon won’t.”

*

_The Chantry_

The vault of the Tower Chantry stretched above, its fluted pillars and arches stained with the warm golden glow of a hundred candles, dwindling into darkness in the heights. The altar cloth was rich crimson brocade, the pews smooth worn mahogany. Sweet incense curled from the censure held by the Revered Mother, and below the pulpit stood the seven white-gowned initiates who made up the Chantry choir. Except today, there were eight.

Solona stood in their midst, her voice as high and pure as an angel’s.

Something wasn’t right, he thought uneasily. She had definitely sung at one of the Solstice celebrations, he wasn’t likely to forget that – and she had looked and sounded like an angel, just as she did now. It was one of his abiding memories of her. But was there something… _different_ about this recollection?

She wore her hair softly braided and twisted up, exposing the creamy length of her throat and the tops of her shoulders, her silken locks as pearly white as the choral vestment she wore. That was as he remembered, surely. The dagged sleeves of the vestment flowed almost to the floor, and that seemed right too – but around her bodice, the thin fabric moulded and clung to her figure in the most distracting way. It hugged the soft curve of her breasts, her slender waist, the outline of her hips and thighs. He had remembered her looking beautiful, but surely the choral vestments hadn’t been quite so… revealing? How could someone covered from shoulder to ankle look practically naked?

To his mortification, he felt himself begin to stir. Heat rising to his cheeks, he bowed his head over his clasped hands, kneeling between the pews in a mockery of piety. Whether he was praying to the Maker or to her, he wasn’t sure. Only one of them could end his suffering, and each in very different ways.

As he struggled to focus on the wooden surface of the pew in front of him, worn smooth by countless hands over hundreds of years, Solona’s voice slipped over and around him like liquid silk. As he chanced to look up, he saw the choir had begun to process down the aisle towards him. Solona was at their head, her rose-pink lips parted song, the hint of her tongue within her softly open mouth. The sight brought his head back down over his clasped hands, silently begging for mercy. _Just let her pass by,_ he prayed, squeezing his eyes shut. _Let her pass by and the service end. If I stay on my knees, they might never know._

A soft hand touched his shoulder. Jumping as if struck by lightning, his head shot up to see Solona kneeling before him, the choir and congregation now silent. His heart beat frantically in his chest. _They are all watching, they all see, they all know!_

Solona’s finger’s trailed from his shoulder to his throat, sending sparks leaping down his spine. Her breasts rose and fell beneath the vestment. “Cullen,” she purred, and he almost lost control, lust and shame fighting for dominance. “Would you like to confess?”

That was when he saw her eyes. They were black, with pupils like points of yellow fire.

Reality suddenly flooded through him. “Begone, demon,” he gasped out.

Solona and the Chantry dissolved like a painting left in the rain. Cullen was back in the Harrowing antechamber, left with nothing but a hammering heart and an ache between his legs.

*

Memories. All memories, his most secret and private thoughts rifled through like a pouch of coin. They started off innocuous, realistic enough that he would be sucked in, lulled into a false sense of security, unable to recognise anything was wrong… but somewhere along the line something would change, the memory going from truth to daydream to full blown fantasy. Only when he was far too deep would he recognise the demon wearing Solona’s skin, and by then he had already given more of himself than he could take back.

 _But it would get nothing from you,_ he told himself in shame and loathing, _if you didn’t_ want _it to be true. If you didn’t_ want _to keep going further, just to know for a single moment what it would have been like._

He hated his weakness. His shame. His need. His want. He hated himself.

 _“I_ don’t hate you,” said Solona, reaching out a hand to cup his face. Her mouth was soft and sad, but her eyes were black and yellow. The Fade rose around them.

Cullen began to sob.

*

_The Library_

It was late. The lamps were running dry, their dwindling radiance leaving the highest bookshelves in darkness. Way above, pinprick diamonds pierced the deep blue velvet of the night sky, winking through high stone windows. Cullen had been on duty since the eighth bell, and in that time the library had slowly emptied until only one apprentice remained.

Solona had been poring over a thick, purple-bound tome for the better part of three hours. She had rubbed her eyes twenty-one times, tucked that one errant strand of hair behind her ear fourteen times, yawned on a dozen instances… and once she had stretched like a cat, arching her back and tipping her head so that her moon-silver hair cascaded down the back of the chair. The way the bodice of her robes had tightened made him flush under his visor.

He was glad he’d donned his helm today. Technically all duty Templars should wear them, but the Knight-Commander looked the other way when brothers wanted to lessen the weight of plate and mail on their longest shifts. Cullen usually took advantage of this leniency, but one of the advantages of wearing a helm was that no one could see where you were looking… Which was how he’d been able to wile away the hours watching Solona.

She always took note of the duty Templars whenever she walked into a room; he’d seen her do a silent visual sweep more times than he could count. She’d clocked him as soon as she arrived, but she couldn’t know it was _him_ under the helm _._ Observing her anonymously made him feel at once ashamed and excited. And now they were the only ones left, the soft brassy tick of the clock the sole noise in the midnight stillness.

As he surfaced from his ruminations, he realised Amarathe’s head was pillowed on the book, her hair spread around her like a halo. Thick soft lashes brushed her cheeks. She had fallen asleep.

Awkwardly, his joints cracking after hours of stillness, he stepped away from the wall. He would have to take her back to the dorms. That would be his duty for any apprentice, of course, but a flare of nervous excitement burned in his chest as he realised he had been given an excuse to be near her, even to touch her. Perhaps the Maker had taken pity on him.

_“Cullen…”_

He halted. Had she woken? Had.. had she known it was _him_ watching her silently for three hours?

Just as his stomach churned, he saw her nestle her cheek more comfortably on the book, her eyes still closed. Could he have been hearing things, lost in his daydreams of her? Then her mouth opened, a sigh escaping her lips, her voice muffled and whispery. “Oh, Cullen…”

She was… dreaming. About _him._ And it was a _good_ dream.

An avalanche of sensations crashed over him, his face flashing hot and cold under the helm. Slowly, feeling stiff and clumsy, he approached the desk. Hardly believing his nerve, he reached out and stroked that errant strand of hair behind the shell of her ear. She gasped softly at the touch of his cold metal gauntlets, but her eyes did not open. _“Cullen…”_

Her whisper shot straight to his core, rousing him deep beneath his armour. He slid his gauntlet through her hair and she fell back softly onto his arm, her head cradled by his hand. Her mouth was tilted up towards him, her eyes darting back and forth behind her lids, frantic from whatever she was dreaming. As she fell back across his arm her dress drew taut, stiff peaks under the fabric thrown into relief by the candlelight. Cullen’s breath came in shaky gasps. Her lips were parted, glistening in the middle. _“Cullen…”_

Just as he reached up to remove his helm, her eyes flickered open. Black and yellow.

Cullen’s breath left him in a ragged cry. He wrenched away from her, nearly losing his footing, grasping wildly at the table for balance. Around them, the library began to collapse like a wall of dominoes. “Begone, demon,” he choked, silver pricking the edge of his vision.

She did, and Cullen awoke alone. Just as he always had.

*

He could taste fresh blood in his mouth. He’d bitten his lip as he fell to the stones.

“Why did you only watch?” asked the demon curiously, perching on the handrail of the steps that lead to the Harrowing Chamber. It was silent up there for once; Cullen did not know whether that was better or worse than the screaming. If everyone was gone, who would ever find him here?

“N-None of your b-business. And I didn't watch her like _that_ , either... you t-twist everything.”

The demon laughed Solona’s gentle laugh. “Our business is each other’s now, sweetling. Tell me, for I long to know – why only watch? You are young and strong, not uncomely. Surely our union would not be despised?”

“It’s f-forbidden. She a mage, I a Templar… And s-stop pretending I don’t know you’re not her. Don’t insult me.”

The demon rolled its poisonous eyes, the only marker to its true nature. Even after invading his earliest, untampered memory of the training ground, it couldn’t replicate Solona’s sapphire hue. “Forbidden? Naïve boy. Your brothers were not so noble, I promise you. Nor your superiors.”

 _Don’t let it draw you in._ “I’m n-not interested in your lies.”

“And yet you drown in lies yourself. You were afraid, Cullen. Of me, of yourself, of _everything_. Convincing yourself the gulf between our stations was too great. And so you watched, wounds tearing anew every time I laughed with another, touched another, smiled at another. Friendship that you would never know. Love you would never have.”

He gritted his teeth. _“Get. Out Of. My Head.”_

“No,” said the demon softly. Cullen whimpered as darkness crept back through the antechamber. “It’s my head now.”

*

_The Gardens_

The sky gardens of Kinloch Hold boasted raised walkways of grass set atop the largest and lowest ring of the Circle Tower, its continuing heights rising from the centre like the axle of a wheel. Stone walls ran its circumference, the height of two men, blocking out the view of Lake Calenhad but leaving the sky open to the air. A controlled space for mages and Templars alike to feel the wind and sun, to break the monotony of Tower life… and incidentally, a regular haunt of Solona’s.

Cullen stood guard at the western door. The trees here were minimal things, stunted from lack of rich soil, petite ornamental orchards that never fruited. But Solona loved to sit in their dappled shade, stroking the grass beside her, no doubt dreaming of a day when she might see true orchards again. The peach tree was her favourite, low and spreading. She could be found there in all weathers, even rain or snow.

Today, though, was the first day of spring. The peach tree was resplendent with blossoms, and as Solona lay beneath them, the translucent shell-pink of her dress blended into the hue of the petals until she looked like part of the tree. Otherworldly; a nymph of the forest.

In contrast, the young man who sat beside her looked like a weed that had been too long in the dark. _Jowan._

Jowan was Solona’s oldest friend at the Tower. He had arrived alongside her in the same cart, two dirty and terrified children clutching each other’s hands like a lifeline. He had been twelve; she eleven. Both older than usual for apprentice mages, who in Ferelden were usually identified and seized early – old enough to fully recall the horrors they must have witnessed, and to be traumatised by the brutal separation from their families. Not that Solona had been so candid with Cullen herself, of course. They may have shyly exchanged some stories in their rare and precious conversations, but never anything so intimate; he’d cobbled it together from gossip and discussions overheard from senior Templars and Enchanters. Solona and Jowan’s friendship was fire-forged, and it seemed nothing would ever separate them… if indeed it was _friendship_ alone _._ Rumours abounded about that, too. Now nineteen years old, Solona had had plenty of suitors at the Tower, but if hearsay could be believed she had politely turned down every one. Could Jowan be the reason?

Cullen’s eyes bored into Jowan’s unsuspecting face, sweltering in his armour under the warm spring sun. The boy sat with his back propped against the bole of the tree, legs crossed and a book in one hand. Solona’s head was in his lap, her own book forgotten and her eyes drooping with sleep, her hair spilling over his robes like a waterfall of spun silk. As Cullen watched, Jowan’s hand threaded idly through those moon-bright tresses, letting them slip over his palm and twine around his fingers.

The tender intimacy, the quiet familiarity of such a gesture sent a lance of scalding jealousy through Cullen’s chest. What would it be like to sit there in idle bliss, Solona’s head cradled peacefully in his lap? His heart burned with longing and despair. What would it be like to run his fingers through her silken hair with such easy, gentle affection?

“Would you like to find out?”

His heart skipped a beat. All at once, the garden seemed as quiet as a tomb. No birds, no wind. Was that _Solona_ who had spoken?

“Don’t you want to be in his place, Cullen?”

He stared at her reposing body, his breath laboured. Her head was angled away, but he could see the corner of her mouth curling in a smile. Jowan took no notice, his fingers moving to the roots of her silvery hair to begin another long, gentle stroke.

“You could, you know.”

He risked a reply, his heart thudding. “W-what do you mean?”

“Haven’t you wondered why I never took a lover?”

“I…” his cheeks were burning. “W-what does that have to do with anything? N-not that I listen to rumours. I wouldn’t know about any – any l-l-lovers.”

Jowan remained absorbed in his book, seemingly unaware of any interruption. Blossom petals fell like snow, covering the grass and dancing around the two mages like confetti. Cullen felt hot and confused. _Something is wrong here._ _This doesn’t feel right._ His heart was thudding anxiously in his chest; the sight of Solona’s prone body made him unutterably uneasy. Why wasn’t she talking to him normally? Why hadn’t she turned her head towards him? 

“Perhaps _he_ was my lover all along,” came Solona’s whisper. Jowan’s hand moved from her hair to her collarbone, stroking a thumb along her smooth flesh, displacing a fallen petal. Cullen felt an explosion of jealous rage, an unbearable instinct to tear Jowan’s hand from her body.

“Do it,” breathed Solona. “Do it, Cullen. It’s you I want. He’s a maleficar; you know he is. No one would miss him.”

Cullen hesitated, a bright fin surfacing in the dark pool of his mind. _Did_ he know that? It seemed to spark a distant memory, but from where and why?

“Cullen, please,” Solona groaned, her voice taking an edge of fear and pain. “I’m afraid, Cullen… I’m afraid of what he’ll do to me…”

Jowan’s hand, tracing lazy circles on the skin above her breasts, suddenly darkened. With reptilian swiftness, he clamped down on her flesh, talons bursting from rotting fingertips. Bright beads of blood welled up, trickling down Solona’s collarbone and staining her hair. A spiderweb of black veins crept over her skin, a nexus of corruption, darkening her dress with gore…

And still Jowan’s eyes never strayed from his book; still Solona lay as if asleep, her hands limp on the grass and her face turned away.

“Cullen, kill him!” came her weak gasp. “Please – _please_ , Cullen, he’s hurting me!”

Cullen staggered towards the tree, reaching for his sword, sweat running into his eyes. His heart felt like a war drum. He raised the blade…

Jowan looked up from his book. Solona’s head turned. Two pairs of black and yellow eyes stared through the waving blossoms.

Cullen dropped the sword, losing his footing and falling among the petals. The grass underneath was slippery, leaving red smears on his knee-guards. He opened his mouth, but words had ceased to exist.

“Kill him,” entreated Solona, and “Kill me,” intoned Jowan in the same instant. As if they were one being, not two. Solona reached out a hand, and so did Jowan, their movements eerily in sync.

“You can take his place.” “You can take my place.”

“He’s a maleficar.” “I’m a maleficar.”

“We can be together.” “You can be together.”

A piercing pain hit Cullen behind the eyes; he threw up a gauntleted fist to shield his face. “S-Stop!”

 _“Save me,”_ choked Solona, her skin blackening with ichor. _“Save her,”_ hissed Jowan, his talons dripping.

 _“Stop!”_ roared Cullen, his head splitting as if struck by an axe, blood-stained petals sticking to his hands and face and eyes. “Stop, _stop_ , BEGONE DEMON!”

His knees slammed on the cold stones of the antechamber.

*

“Envy,” purred the demon wearing Solona’s skin. “It is like a poison, yes? Dripping into your soul, day after day, night after night. Jealous of those I loved, those I confided in, those with whom I shared my secrets and my heart. Is it not so?”

He was so tired; so weak. His throat was dry, burning like the deserts of Antiva. When had he last had a sip of water? A morsel of food? A wink of sleep that hadn’t been invaded by her smiling, inviting face?

“Leave me, demon,” he slurred.

“You can tell me, sweet Cullen. Confide in me as you have always longed to. You were jealous of Jowan, were you not? Of our closeness; our love?”

“He didn’t deserve her,” Cullen mumbled before he could stop himself.

The demon’s smile widened like a hawk looming over a juicy mouse. “Yes, oh yes,” it crooned. “He didn’t deserve my love. My secrets. My body… you thought about that often, didn’t you? He and I, entwined together, in a way you and I would never share?”

“It-it wasn’t like that. They were friends. He had the Chantry novice; the one who b-betrayed her vows.”

“Vows, oh, _vows.”_ The demon stroked Solona’s long silvery hair, its hand moving down over her silken lengths to where they tumbled over her breast. “What would you do with your _vows,_ sweet Cullen, if I told you the reason I never took a lover was because I was in love with _you?”_

He hated the leap of hope in his heart, the way his breath came quicker; even now, even _now._ “Your lies w-won’t trick me any more. Your w-words are nothing but dust and ash.”

“All those years; all those suitors. Men, women; apprentice, enchanter; mage, Templar. I had plenty to choose from. But none of them were you.”

The lie – and he _knew_ it was a lie, for how could it not be – still managed to pierce his chest. And yet, there was a scrap of truth in there too, wasn’t there? For Solona _had_ rebuffed all advances during her time in the Tower. Confusion rose in his parched, sleep-deprived mind. “I… she… would never have thought of me. A mage and a Templar… it could never be. Y-you can’t trick me.”

The demon turned away, for the first time showing exasperation. “You are so wrong. And so blind. What years you have wasted; what joy and pleasure you might have known! Mortals are such fools.”

He was crying again, he realised dully. Tears were dripping down his cheeks and pattering onto the steel of his gorget. It didn’t matter whether the demon spoke truth or falsehood. Regardless of the real Solona’s feelings, he would never know the joy and contentment of requited love. He was going to die here.

Muffled screams came from the barred door to the Harrowing Chamber, animalistic howls and a dreadful tearing noise like rending flesh. The demon sauntered towards Cullen, the walls around them beginning to blur into the landscape of the Fade. “No,” he whimpered. “Please, please, no more. There’s nothing left. Just let me die.”

“You’re mistaken.” The demon gave him Solona’s gentle smile. “There is plenty left. And you will not die for a long time.”

Cullen bowed his head, tears falling to the ash-stained flagstones before the world once again went dark.

*

_The Bathhouse_

The bathhouse was the only part of Kinloch Hold to have windows at eye-height. With a 200 foot drop to the spiked rooves of the lower levels, no mage would be brave or stupid enough to attempt escape here – especially not with all their clothes and gear left in the changing rooms. And so the bathers were treated to a sight found nowhere else in the Tower; the vista of Lake Calenhad and its encircling mountains. On a clear day you might see the ochre smudge of Castle Redcliffe on the horizon, and even in poor weather the view was the best a mage was ever likely to see.

The baths were split into male and female areas, and a slim corridor – in practice little more than a cavity – ran behind the facing wall to allow Templars access to their guard posts. In theory there was no part of the Tower that should remain unobserved, but given the scarcity of women in the Templar ranks, the female bathhouse often went unchecked. Perhaps that was why it was popular.

There was no observation window into the baths themselves, of course; that would be a violation too far, even given the mages’ familiarity with surveillance. But as Cullen traversed the wallspace to the guard post outside the changing area, he was distracted by a bright spot of gold on the interior wall. A chink of light seeping through the stones. A… crack? As he moved to investigate, he realised the light was coming from the candelabras surrounding the baths. The _women’s_ baths. And submerged in the steaming water…

Cullen pulled back so hard he hit the wall, plate striking stone with a muffled _thwack_. Solona was in there. She was the _only_ one in there.

 _Don’t look,_ he begged himself. _You are better than this. Walk past and report the damage to the duty officer. You are no peeping tom. Don’t betray her trust._

Some part of his addled memory – the _real_ memory, as his body lay in bondage below the Harrowing chamber – knew that that was exactly what he had done. He would never have invaded Solona’s privacy like some lecherous tavern scum; nor would he allow anyone else to. And yet, in this twisted fantasy held and controlled by a creature with no inkling of moral propriety or consent, the concepts of decency and respect were so alien as to be laughable.

He pushed off the wall slowly, as if through treacle. As if his true self knew what this meant, and fought it at every step.

It lost.

He lowered his eye to the chink in the stone. A flare of light – and then, the slow revelation of the scene before him.

Solona reclined in the steaming depths, her hair slicked back from her face. The water had darkened it to pewter, but where the light caught it a sheen of pearlescent lustre danced across its lengths. Waves lapped about her shoulders, her skin glowing like cream in the candlelight. Her arms rested along the mosaiced lip of the pool, the position pulling her breasts forward and up, exposing their tops above the surface. As the water ebbed, a sunset-pink nipple bobbed into sight.

Cullen felt a swoop in his stomach, resting his forehead on the cool stone as his eye cleaved to the spyhole. His breath came faster as he felt a twinge _there_ , deep down under his armour.

She was so beautiful, framed by the starlight of that rare ground-level window, that she took his breath away. A vision of perfection, grace, purity... something he could never possess; never even dare to reach for. Cullen felt a stab of shame as he strained against his laces. It was wrong to observe her like this, wrong, _wrong_ – yet he couldn’t stop himself.

As he watched, one of her slender arms slipped from the mosaiced rim into the depths. The water was partially opaque with oils and perfumes, but he could see the hazy form of her hand moving between her legs. Her head tipped back, a small sigh escaping her lips. His heart nearly stopped. Oh Maker, was she…?

She was.

As one hand made lazy circles below the surface, the other crept along her collarbone. She rose slightly, the water cascading from her breasts, slick and glowing with candlelight, rosy nipples peaked by the sudden chill. Cullen barely caught the groan that tore his throat, his knees trembling in an onslaught of desire. Unable to resist, a traitor hand snaked below the tabards of his armour, searching, seeking… _there._ He swallowed a pathetic keen as he shakily grasped himself.

Solona let out a soft mewl. Slowly, so slowly, her hand moved… and in the same rhythm, so too did his. A secret harmony – an invisible link that penetrated stone and water and joined their two beings in hidden congress. A wall stood between their bodies, but their souls were one.

Cullen’s breath hitched as he palmed the length of himself, flashes of pleasure jolting through him like lightning. Sweat beaded on his forehead as he leaned shakily against the wall, limbs trembling with need. And then…

 _“Cullen,”_ Solona whimpered.

Cullen froze, eyes wide, his entire body quivering like a bowstring.

Solona’s head rolled back, her eyes shut. Slowly she rose further, water running in rivulets down the smooth skin of her belly, and perched on the lip of the bath. Cullen’s heart was hammering so loud he could barely think. _She said my name. She’s thinking of me. **Of me.**_

Her hand snaked down again… and she parted her legs. Wet, shuddering, rose-pink, she opened herself fully towards him until her knees pressed against the rim of the bath on each side… and then she breathed his name again.

Cullen nearly peaked right then.

Her other hand drifted to her nipple, rolling it between her fingers, her chest heaving in earnest now. She circled the little bud at the apex of her thighs, drawing a sharp whimper from her parted mouth. “Yes, Cullen… there… like that…”

A supernova was exploding in his head. He moved his own hand in response, wishing more than anything for the courage to walk out from behind the wall, to shuck his armour and kneel before her, to steal kisses from every secret part of her, murmur her name inside her, taste every petal of that rose…

Solona gasped. “Cullen – _Cullen-”_ Her legs tensed, back arching, toes curling where they dipped in the water. He saw that rose-pink centre begin to spasm…

Cullen came with a hoarse cry, biting down on his gauntlet to muffle his voice. His knees shook, wracked with tremors, the pulses of his climax shooting through his body, the warm wetness of seed coating his hand.

Exhausted, insensible, he slumped against the wall as the tremors slowly receded. The roaring in his ears gradually began to fade, the golden-glow of the spyhole creeping back through his blacked-out vision. Panting, eyes hooded, he looked fuzzily towards the bath.

Solona was standing up, her eyes open. Yellow and black.

Realisation came to him like a bucket of ice water. The wall disappeared, as did the bath. Cullen fell to his knees like a puppet with its strings cut.

The demon smiled.

“It took us so long to get here, lover, so long… and yet ohhhhh, how _worth_ it!” The demon crooned, its eyes fixed gluttonously on the evidence of Cullen’s arousal, his weakness, his shame. “Shall we stay here like this forever, you and I?”

He couldn’t even cry. Exhaustion had sapped everything he possessed. Cullen looked up at the demon with dim eyes, and knew he was done. He could not even find the strength to speak. It was over. Everything was over.

She walked towards him, and he prepared to die.

“No,” said the demon.

 _Just do it,_ he begged silently, his mouth unable to form the words.

“No,” said the demon again, raising its hands in front of Solona’s face, her mouth opening in shock and fear. Staring over his shoulder, at something that wasn’t him. “Begone, mortal – he is mine, he is _mine–”_

White fire exploded everywhere.

The empty bathhouse disappeared, candelabras consumed in a maelstrom of light and energy. Blue flame and silver ice entwined together, indigo lightning forking through the tempest. The demon was a husk of ash. He thought he could hear someone calling his name, high and frantic, through the screaming winds.

“Cullen? Cullen, can you hear me? Help – Wynne, help me get him out! _Cullen!_ ”

The antechamber was back, the high marble walls stained with smoke and gore. Thumps and crashes came from the Harrowing Chamber. And before him…

He almost crumbled to see Solona hovering over him, her heart-shaped face and soft lips as perfect as the first time the demon stepped into his nightmares. _No… no! I thought that was it, I thought I was free, I thought it had died – how many more tricks? How much more torment can I endure?_

Despair gave him voice. “This trick again? I know what you are. It won’t w-work.” His own bravado sounded hollow in his ears; the same trick had worked again, and again, and again.

Solona was frantically running her hands up and down the beams of light that marked the prison Uldred had conjured. Cullen wondered why the demon was bothering with this charade, as if it hadn’t already plumbed every sordid depth, extracted every shameful secret from him. He felt the testament to that against his thigh, the rapidly-cooling stickiness that coated the inside of his armour.

Solona’s hands stilled, her panic-filled eyes darting to him. “Cullen… don’t you recognise me?”

“Only too well,” he snarled. She moved towards him, despite the barrier, but he jerked back. “Don’t touch me! Stay away! Sifting through my thoughts… tempting me with the one thing I always wanted but could never h-have…” He was angry now, rage boiling through him like a purifying flame, burning out the corruption that had crippled him for three endless days. “Using my shame against me, my ill-advised infatuation with her… A mage, of all things! I am a Templar! Do you think I never understood, never felt a thousand times a day the gulf between us? I am so tired of these cruel jokes! If anything in you is human, stop these games and _kill me now!”_

Solona looked stricken. “Cullen, I…”

“Stop wearing her face! Don’t you have any other way to torment me? You’ve had everything you possibly could from me! I will never be able to look at her again without seeing you lurking beneath; is that what you wanted? If by some miracle of Andraste I ever _do_ see her, before you suck me dry and leave me for Uldred – you profaned everything I once felt for her, any love that was inside me! _Are you satisfied?”_

He felt strong, he realised. His words surged forth with icy precision, his stutter left in the wake of his pain and fury. His legs no longer felt weak, the stifling blanket of fuzz and confusion had left his eyes, as if, as if…

_…As if the demon no longer held control of him._

The antechamber was so silent he could hear the infinitesimal hum of magic from the barrier that separated him from Solona. Who was not alone, he suddenly realised. Who was flanked by Senior Enchanter Wynne, and two other warriors he didn’t recognise. Solona, whose moon-silver hair was woven into a practical braid, ends pulled loose from exertion and covered in soot. Solona, who wore torn travelling robes, not seductive silks and lace. Solona, whose beautiful face was wracked with devastation, her skin smudged with ash and blood, fresh tears tracking down her dirty cheeks, dark hollows under the exhausted blue eyes that fixed on him in pure anguish…

Blue. Blue. The one thing the demon had never got right.

He was on his knees again. Hadn’t even remembered falling.

“Begone, demon,” he whispered.

Solona remained. _Blue. Blue. Her eyes are blue._

“I’ll find a way to free you,” she choked, hardly able to speak. More tears cut their tracks through her battle-stained skin. But Cullen found, finally, that he had none left.

“I’ll fix this, I promise.” Her words were pleading; whether to him of the Maker, he couldn’t tell. He nodded to please her, as if that meant anything any more. As if anything would mean anything ever again. She turned for the Harrowing Chamber at the urging of Wynne, muttered platitudes from her companions that they would come back; they would free him; they would heal him.

Empty words. Nothing would heal him, now or later.

She cast back a final distraught look before they ascended the stairs, her eyes holding him in silent agony.

As she disappeared, he found himself praying he would die before her return.

*

_Romeo: Is she a Capulet? O Dear account! my life is my foes' debt._

_Benvolio: Away, be gone, the sport is at the best._

_Romeo: Ay, so I fear, the more is my unrest._

_~Romeo & Juliet, Act I, Sc. V_


End file.
